


Friday Nights

by Forsecondary



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Degradation, Dirty Talk, Drug Use, M/M, Public Sex, cross dressing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-26
Updated: 2016-11-26
Packaged: 2018-09-02 05:56:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8653423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Forsecondary/pseuds/Forsecondary
Summary: Dallon knows Brendon wants to look beautiful.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, another dark one. Two for two. This could become a series if I get some positive feedback, so if you want some more in this verse, please let me know!

Dallon knew Brendon wanted to feel beautiful. He knew the thick foundation, the eyebrow pencils, the lipstick, the heels, the tight jeans, the see through t-shirts. They gave him the confidence he needed. Dallon didn’t mind all that. 

He liked to watch him get ready every Friday night. Dallon would sit on the cold tile of their bathroom floor and watch in the mirror as he shoved a needle into his arm. Then try desperately to cover up the track marks, the bruising, with expensive makeup he bought with Dallon’s credit card. 

Then, he’d push his hair back and put foundation all over his face until it was cakey and not a single blemish could be seen. Brendon thought his skin looked flawless. Glowing. Beautiful. Dallon thought he looked like a ghost. He’d put a circle of blush on the apples of his cheeks. He’d make them rose and beautiful and horrifyingly unnatural. He’d fill in the ugly gaps in his eyebrows. He’d line his eyes with a white jumbo pencil, so they’d be bigger and rounder. More innocent and glistening when he’s on his knees. He’d do his eye makeup dark. Big wings and thick lashes. He’d slather his lips with pink lipstick. He wanted to look like a slut. He wanted you to know he’s a slut. 

His makeup routine screamed “desperate”. More so than his four inch heels and short skirts and crop tops. These items showed off the only thing he had to be proud of. They showed his protruding collarbones and sharp hips. They revealed his gorgeous body which he worked so hard go get and maintain. (By any means necessary. “Only 300 calories” he’d say, and pop sparkling blue pills. He’d do pushups at three am, he’d do 600 jumping jacks without stopping.) But his makeup… It showed how much he hated himself. 

That self loathing is why he does it. Why he goes through this long process every Friday. It’s why he makes Dallon take him far, far out to a nasty club. It’s why he sets him down and makes him watch. He makes him watch as he goes to find some other tall, handsome man. Watch as he grinds against him, palms him through his jeans. His slacks. Whatever. Right there in the middle of all these dancing people. It made him feel beautiful. 

His self loathing is why he makes Dallon watch the stranger feed him pills or take shots off his perfect, thin body. Dallon has to sit and watch as Brendon drags the stranger to the disgusting men’s bathroom.

Dallon knows exactly how things go on the other side of the door. The guy would probably try and make sure it was empty but Brendon wouldn’t let him. He’d drop to his knees, not even flinching at the crack of his knees against the tile. He’d tear at the stranger’s belt. 

He’d suck him off like is life depended on it. Then he’d bend over the counter, brace his hands against the cracked mirror, tell him he’s clean, and be screaming for it harder in a matter of minutes. He’d look disgusting with his breath fogging up the mirror, lipstick messy, foundation cracking, skirt hiked up. 

Dallon would have this image in his head as he sits and rubs himself subtly through his jeans at the bar, staring at the closed door. 

And after the man comes inside him, Brendon would stare at himself in a broken mirror. He wouldn’t fix his hair, he wouldn’t wipe his mouth, he’d hardly straighten his skirt before stumbling out of the bathroom and into Dallon’s arm arms. He’d sob into his neck, in the back of another dirty taxi cab, on the drive home. Dallon would already be hard. 

When they finally got to their luxuriously large apartment, Dallon would hardly have the time to flip on the lights before Brendon’s dropping to his knees for the second time that night, opening his pretty lips wide. Dallon would jerk off into his face. He;d see him at his lowest point. Eye makeup dripping with his tears, lipstick smeared from his blowjob. 

Brendon would listen as Dallon said the dirtiest things to him. Call him a cumslut, a whore, shout at him for spreading his legs for any man in any bathroom. He was any man’s bitch. He would let Dallon smack him. Step on him, even his face, spit on him, until Dallon finally decided that Brendon had had enough and would come on him. Brendon would cry. 

He would wipe Dallon’s come off his face or his back or his thighs and he would lick it off his fingers. He’d eat it like it was the best thing he’d ever tasted. 

Dallon would leave him there, on the ground in the kitchen or the living room or their bedroom. Brendon would be left alone to scrub his makeup off. He’d take a freezing cold shower and some more drugs, and curl up in their large bed with silk red sheets and he’d fall asleep as the sun rose.


End file.
